Moishe’s Bake Shop, written in a fading, dirty-yellow lettering against a greenish-blue board, caught our attention.
Moments later, a soft tinkle of an invisible bell, announced our entry into the empty shop. A young girl in an ankle-length skirt, hair tied in a neat ponytail scurried out from a back door to assist.
As I peered mindlessly through the glass counters, uncertain of what to order, a jolly old man, who could’ve made an authentic Kris Kringle, trotted out from where moments earlier, the girl had emerged.
“Ah, I’ve not seen you for a long time?” he queried heartily.
“Well, I’ve been here and there,” I replied gingerly, not wanting to disappoint him.
Either I looked genuinely familiar to him or he had remarkable salesmanship, but at any rate, this was my first visit to this bakery.
The right measure of garrulity can work wonders for a business. After all, I didn’t walk out without a purchase. Upon googling the shop back home, I discovered that it’s the oldest Jewish bakery in the West Village.